New Year’s Eve again. Time to reflect, eat cheese, stay up way too late, and eat more cheese.

Yes, that’s where I’m at tonight. All the cheese.

Looking back on this year, I feel like I’ve lost a lot. I lost a tooth, I lost most of my baby-making equipment, and I lost my big old face mole. So, not all bad stuff.

I gained some things, too, like my fancy poppy tattoo and an equally fancy kitchen. Good things, there.

I’m also getting ready to perform a recital that I started preparing in 2015, so there’s that. No pressure. But also a pretty good thing, because I almost gave up on that this year, but I didn’t. So even if it doesn’t go great, at least I tried.

So I feel like 2019 was not too bad.

Still miss Mom, though. Maybe in 2020 that’ll get easier. We’ll see.

At any rate, I’m going to try to be extra nice during this new decade. Stop being selfish and self-absorbed, and maybe put down my phone more often and learn something or do something that’s real. I’m going to try to learn a new language this year and focus on the things that I like to do, not just the things that I have to do.

And also, I’m going to keep loving my cheeses. All of them. I think that’s the real secret.

Happy 2020 tomorrow!

I may have mentioned our kitchen remodel. A bit. Or maybe a lot, but come on, it's really exciting. We bought a house that was way bigger and nicer than we ever thought we could get, and making it pretty is the most fun thing ever. 

Fun, frustrating, expensive, painful, you know. All of that.

But my husband is a pretty awesome designer and tear-out, electrical, plumbing, all-around handy guy, and we got stupendous cabinets from a really nice guy in Amarillo and beautiful granite installed by a wonderful company here in town, and then my Dad came and took the sweetest pictures ever, and now I'm sharing them all here, for all two of you who still read this, because I post pretty much never. But here goes.

Feel free to ooh and aah. Especially at those fancy appliance garage doors, because they are AMAZING.

So, I must confess, I have a wee problem with standing up for myself. Like, there were these girls in middle school that used to punch me in the back when I was getting stuff out of my locker, and I wouldn’t ever tell on them. Still never have.

I remember them vividly, though, and if I ever get the chance, I have a glorious speech all ready for them. Ha.

At any rate, there is a new person in my life who has brought new meaning to the term “frenemy.” This person is cruel and mean, while also being a very giving and thoughtful person. I don’t get it. One minute, she’s saying things that honestly sound slightly Hitler-esque, and the next, she’s making me soup.

So confusing.

So I’m pretty scared of her, because I don’t want to get on her bad side. Therefore, I am venting here because yesterday she really got me.

She has made jokes about people thinking I look pregnant and about how I’m “definitely not beautiful, but cute!” before, and it’s pretty much as though she doesn’t realize how a stick-thin, former model who sits on her butt and eats cookies all day and never exercises could seem a little condescending when making these comments to a hefty, slightly mannish-looking woman who has been teased about weight and largeness her whole life. And has been a member of a society that tells her she doesn’t fit, and sends her to the back of the store to buy clothes at twice the cost. And has been on every diet known to man, faithfully, and exercises regularly and hasn’t had a cookie in ages, and yet the scale doesn’t budge.

Ugh. The struggle is real up in my neighborhood.

So yes, I’m not small and feminine and all of that. And I’m trying to accept it, because I don’t think bone and muscle reduction is a thing, and also just wait until that osteoporosis kicks in, lady. At any rate, she has had a hard life so I keep trying to remember that “hurt people hurt people.” I know she does it because she needs to do that to feel better, and that’s really sad.

But.

Yesterday when she walked in and stood there looking at me with her mouth hanging open, and I am just sitting there with my newly back to pixie hair, feeling like crap because, well, morning, but at least I was ecstatic with my hair. It just looks like what I feel like I look like. I can’t explain it any better than that. So I say, “Yep! I cut it off! Yay!”

And she says, with a look that makes her feelings completely known (sort of the face you’d make if someone took a dump on your desk), “Ugh. You sure did.”

And that was it.

I know it’s not a big deal, and I was hoping that if I let it go, I wouldn’t feel hurt about it, but I do. I don’t need her to like the way I look, but I sure wish she’d keep her opinions to herself. It’s not like I ask what she thinks.

And now I’ve gotten it out, and I can go on. Or maybe I’ll actually take a dump on her desk. We’ll see what the day brings...

By the way, EVERYONE is beautiful to someone. Be kind today. Feelings matter, guys.

Those of you who know me really well know that I have got a startle response that is completely disproportionate to the actual amount of startle. I've been this way my entire life, and many of my family members have equally fun startles.

This is why no one in my family jumps out at each other and says, "Boo!" You're liable to get a punch in the face if you pull something like that.

At any rate, I was washing some dishes in the sink at my work (where I probably spend a good hour of every day, attempting to wash off all the ew I have to touch because certain people poop and then don't wash their hands...another story for another day, there), and my co-worker came up behind me and patted me on the back to let me know she was behind me. Unfortunately, I had been singing a song in my head, and I was just getting to the really good emotional part, so I hadn't heard a thing, and I jumped a little bit, and we laughed and went on about our business.

I then went back to my desk and congratulated myself on containing my startle. Felt pretty darn proud.

About an hour later, everyone but me left for lunch and I was back at the sink, doing my thing, when all of a sudden I heard a noise and I yelped, jumped, hit my head on the cupboard above the sink and then kicked my shin on the cabinets.

The noise? Water draining down the sink.

Yep. I guess the startle's not as contained as I thought it was. Oops.

Okay! Kitchen is done!

Now on to the next thing, which is all the things. You know, the Thanksgiving/Christmas presents/performing/baking extravaganza that makes late November-January go by in a blink.

Stress may or may not also be a component; I’ll have to let you know in a week or so, now that all of the whatchamacallit has hit the fan of my life.

I also did something which may or may not end up being the stupidest thing I’ve ever done: I had my huge lip mole removed. It used to be a little brown mole, but then when I was a teenager, I bugged my Mom enough that she let me get it snipped off at the dermatologist. Easy peasy, except that the little brown mole wasn’t the real mole. There was a big flesh-colored bad boy brewing underneath there, and a few years later, that thing came out, and the dermatologist was like, “No way, José.”

I don’t think she actually said that; it’s just the way I’ve built up the story in my mind as I obsess over the massive wad of skin hanging out by my mouth and generally making me look like even more of a weirdo.

Also, I had convinced myself that my unborn conjoined twin was inside that mole. Not so, but it made a nice back story to tell myself.

Anyway, I finally went to a plastic surgeon, it was completely covered by my insurance, and so it got cut off on Friday. Except that it made a way huger cut than I’d imagined and now I’m paranoid about looking like the Joker for the rest of my life.

So, yeah, holiday parties and singing with a ginormous three-sided square right in the middle of my face should be fun. I’ve already done one gig, and I’ve seen the pictures, and whoa. Good call, me. 18 stitches. Six little ones on each side. Yeah, it looks pretty phenomenal.

But maybe, just maybe, it’ll turn out okay.

Or not. Just in case, I should probably get started on a sweet nickname. I’ve already decided that I’m gong to tell people I got in a knife fight with a puppy over a piece of cheese. That sounds pretty cool and tough, so I can at least keep my street cred.

Well, it’s been a month. Crazy in my neck of the woods; I now have an almost complete, new kitchen, so that’s pretty exciting.

I also, though, have no groceries in my fridge, and my hair is getting to be 95% split ends, and I don’t have a firm date from the facility for my upcoming recital, and my elbow hurts.

Whine.

However, today is Friday. And I remembered the funniest thing ever (it was even funny at the time, although I couldn’t believe it was happening, and I wanted to kill the kid who did it), so I thought I would make a nice, funny, Friday post. I may have posted about it before, but since I had forgotten about it, I bet everyone who reads this will have forgotten, too. Here goes.

I used to conduct musicals every summer for this organization that runs a sort of educational music day camp for kids. One year, I had these two new boys that had never come to the camp before, and the older boy had a good voice and seemed pretty comfortable on the stage, so the directors of the camp decided to give him a big leading role in the show. I wasn’t sure about it, because stage fright is nasty, and you never know who’s going to be paralyzed by it until you see them in front of an audience. Not my call, though, so we went with it.

All through rehearsals, he did really well, and was a nice boy who learned his lines and got along with the other kids, so we thought we were good.

We got to opening night, and everything was gong fine. Intermission got there, and I went backstage and checked, and everything was okay. Good? Good. Started the second act of the show, and the boy and three other kids were onstage and just starting a little quartet.

All of a sudden, the kid stops and just walks offstage. Just leaves. The other three kids go ahead and do the quartet without him and fill in his lines and everything. They were super awesome. So we finish the show and the boy never comes back and I go backstage thinking that maybe he just got scared or hurt himself or something. Nope.

He’s sitting on the couch backstage, talking to some other kids.

I go over and ask him what happened.

“I had to poop.” he says.

Seriously. That’s what he had to walk off the stage and go do. He had to poop. Apparently, his mom had told him once not to hold his poop, and he took it very seriously.

So, yeah. That happened. Thought I’d share, since it’s Friday and I also haven’t written about poop in ages. I may be off on some of the details, since it’s been ages, but he totally walked off the stage in the middle of an act to poop.

Ha ha ha I love kids. They’re the best.

So I’m on this lifelong quest to be a better person and all, right? And I’m doing okay, except that sometimes it’s really hard not to cry about things and just run home and hide in my bed. But there are certain things that make it easier, like having a great husband and family and also living in a place where I get to see birds and bunnies every day, and owning my very own coffee maker, with which I can produce that glorious nectar, thereby sustaining my existence.

But some days, coffee isn’t enough. Yesterday was one of those days.

Yesterday, I arrived at work to find that my job share person had done none of the basic day to day tasks we each take care of during our shifts. Apparently, he has been given other, more fun tasks, and I am to do all of the crap tasks. Is this sanctioned by my bosses? Why, yes, it is. Is it because he has more education than me? Nope. He has less. More experience? Actually, he has way less experience than me in those matters. Years and years less. Is it because he asked to do those things and I didn’t? Nope, not that, either. I asked about it a few weeks ago and was told that they’d have me do those things in a while.

What, pray tell, could be the reason this young man, with less education, experience, and time on the job is given the higher-level tasks to complete, whilst I, a middle-aged woman with better qualifications across the board is left to do all of the crap work? Hmmm. Let’s think here.

Yep. He’s a boy.

It’s so blatant that our other administrative area co-worker noticed, and so did our new associate. I just love it. It’s demoralizing, demeaning, AND I get to pick up extra work. On top of the extra work he was hired to help with, which he’s not doing, so I’m stuck with even more.

So I’m complaining about it here on my blog, since that will accomplish exactly nothing.

Sexism is alive and well, folks. And some of us need our jobs too much to risk complaining about it, and have therefore become part of the problem. 

And that’s my week in a nutshell. Nice.

I’m trying really hard to kind of Marie Kondo my closet. Kind of. A little.

There are probably forty shirts in there, and I know I only wear around twenty of them regularly, and then there are another few that are for dressy things, and then one or two that I love but they only fit me during rare periods of shrinkification. So I feel like the other ten or so shirts should probably go.

And then I have a day where I lose my mind and decide to wear one of the shirts I never wear.

It’s bad. Really, really bad. But I do it anyway.

And then I stand in there and think, “I should just get rid of this shirtlike nightmare, once and for all.” But I hesitate because then what if I don’t have enough shirts and I go through a ten week phase of being unable to do laundry and I develop horrendous armpit sweat that renders all of my other shirts unwearable so it’s either keep those bad shirts that looked good that one time in Old Navy under the special lighting that doesn’t let you see bra bulges, see-through spots, or the fact that when you sit down, the entire shirt will suddenly become one size smaller, but only in the arms, so you’re reduced to either sitting in your chair but incapable of arm motion, or standing for the entire day. (Old Navy, shame on you and your dressing room lighting that makes me buy those shirts. It’s all your fault.)

It’s the same fear that makes me pack ten pairs of underwear for a two day trip, because I may suddenly start peeing my pants all day long. Except with shirts.

At any rate, that’s where I’m at with that. I got rid of two shirts yesterday that I’ve had for about ten years, and are now so thin that I can completely see everything through them, but I pretend that it’s just me, because they’re comfortable and I like the colors. But no more. They are in my donation pile. Along with my pink pony dress which I love and wore about fifty times before getting ink on it and realizing that it does, indeed, make me look pregnant.

Oh, Marie Kondo, your process makes me even more neurotic. Waiting for the sparky joy part. Not there yet.

Well, we officially have no kitchen. It’s gone. My husband tore all of the cabinets out this weekend, and our new ones are being made, so there it is.

It’s not so bad right now, though, because he also put up some work tables and a little utility sink, and our refrigerator is still there so we’re not living out of coolers. Which is good, because we have about a month to go.

Why do we do this? Oh yeah, this kitchen was pretty gross.

I mean, it was clean and all, but there were so many mystery stains on the insides of the cupboards that I had just resigned myself to accepting (I decided they were iced tea....it seemed to be a good color match, even though the spray patterns would definitely point toward something carbonated). And the counter had huge corner seams which would not stay together anymore, no matter how much my husband shimmed them up, so yep. It’s time.

It’s weird to think that three years ago, we had just finished our new kitchen in the old house, and now we’re doing it again. This one is easier, though, because we aren’t doing the entire house. There’s no floor fixing or anything.

Still, though. Only three years and we’re doing this again. What is wrong with us?

Why do I bother asking? I totally know....we are THOSE people. The ones who need a project and like to have something to fix, even when it means no free weekends,  no sleeping in, and no extra money for vacations, etc., because it always goes into the house. Ha ha ha we are nuts.

At any rate, it’s on now. The house is a dusty mess, there’s kitchen stuff everywhere, and we’re just accepting the chaos. Or, he’s accepting it, and I’m trying to figure out ways to clean around it so my brain doesn’t explode because dust makes me lose my mind.

And that’s what’s happening in our neck of the woods. So there you go!

Fat-positive post coming up here. You’ve been warned.

So I took myself off of my diet this year because, well, I’ve been on a diet since I was 8 and it wasn’t doing me any good. Oh, and did I mention that I noticed that if I was doing what I was doing and I was skinny, it would’ve been an eating disorder? Because yep. Totally. Obsessing, eating nothing, exercising way too hard, and all for nothing. Nothing. My metabolism basically stopped. Yay.

At any rate, I stopped dieting and started thinking about being healthy and putting good food in my body that would keep it running optimally and help me to feel better. And I actually lost a little weight, not a ton, but it’s a process. And I’m working on not obsessing about weight anyway, because that’s a big part of the problem.

So last night at rehearsal, I was sitting next to this lady who tells me every year how she does this intermittent fasting thing (tried it, didn’t work), and how I should try it because it’s much easier at my age and if I don’t take care of my weight now, I’ll be sorry. I know she means well, but every year I try not to sit next to her because it just makes me crazy. But this year, well , this year she’s feeling a little, hmm...different. Yes, I’m a little smaller than I was last year, and yes, she’s a little larger than last year,  but she’s also fasting 18 hours a day. And seems kind of miserable because it’s not doing anything. So she tells me about it, and tells me her age and all of this stuff, and I’m thinking that if I’m starving myself 18 hours a day when I’m in my 70s, that is going to be extremely depressing.

So after rehearsal, I got in my car and was driving home, and I realized that labeling ourselves as “fat” is just another way we are grouping ourselves into tiny little clumps, instead of recognizing the fact that we’re all human. That’s it. And we have different characteristics, but we let “fat” take up so much space in our lives. As though it’s the be-all end-all of existence.

And it’s just not.

I’m fat, but I’m also tall, and I’m smart, and I’m strong, and I’m pretty darn healthy. I’m so many different adjectives that may or may not have a negative connotation at this point in time, that could just as well be positive in another circumstance, I have other women tell me all the time that they’d love to have my height, or my curly hair. Well, I’ve always wished I was tiny, and I think straight hair is much easier to deal with. Probably because I don’t have it.

The point is, why does that one adjective in its many forms take up so much of our personality profile? And people spend their entire lives trying to get rid of it, when they could be concentrating on being healthy (physically AND emotionally), and get better results and feel better inside.

People are dying from dieting. They’re killing themselves, and they’re hurting their own hearts, and they’re doing things to make their bodies work in ways they were never designed to work. It’s really an awful thing.

I’m not saying not to eat healthy and exercise. Bodies need good-quality fuel, and they need to move. But maybe the reasoning behind it matters. Maybe if you hate your body and starve it and do exercise in a way that makes it hurt, that’s not as helpful as you’d think.

Maybe recognize the fact that all bodies have fat, and all bodies have bone, and all bodies have muscle, and your body is a wonderful machine JUST THE WAY IT IS. Take care of it and treat it the way you would treat a mansion or the most expensive car in the world. It’s not replaceable. If you mistreat it, you can’t get a new one, and eating some nice vegetables and healthy, less processed things is a heck of a lot cheaper and easier than going to the doctor or being in the hospital.

Being kind to yourself isn’t something that comes naturally to a lot of us. Many of us feel like we need to whip these bodies into shape as a sort of punishment for not lookin the way we think we should look. But we can’t think like that. If you want to get in shape, that’s awesome! Your body will love the exercise, and you’ll probably end up a lot healthier. Just don’t do it as a punishment; you didn’t do anything wrong, and , if you did, you probably can’t exercise it away.

So, I guess the point of all of this is that I realized that maybe, after all, I’m on the right track for me. Dieting is just not a way I want to live anymore. Self-loathing is not a state of mind in which I feel like I need to spend time anymore. It’s probably going to take a while to get used to that, but I think it’s important.

Dramatic drive home, right?

Last night I realized that my husband and I went and had a baby and didn’t even notice it. A bird baby.

This sounds a little cuckoo.

Well, maybe that’s okay. We are a little weird. At any rate, we have this cockatiel, and we love her like crazy. And buy her all the toys and treats and do training stuff and all that. Which I think keeps us in normal pet parent mode. Last night, though, we shifted into this place which was much more like people with a human baby times, and I don’t know where that puts us now, but it’s a little embarrassing.

This kid demands love and adoration ALL DAY. Guilt trips included if we don’t comply. And birds aren’t like dogs. If you give them food they don’t like, they will quite seriously starve themselves until they die. They’re weirdos like that. This girl will not eat if she doesn’t like where you put her bowl, and she has an issue with climbing down her ladder to get to her food.

A month or so ago, I was riding my exercise bike and she figured out the ladder. We have had this play gym since Christmas, so it’s been quite a while, but she doesn’t like going backwards down the ladder, so when she gets hungry, she will sit at the edge of her upper perch and sadly tweet at me until I move her down. I have tried ignoring her, but she will do it for hours and then not eat, and then dramatically throw herself off of the entire thing onto the floor and go hide under the coffee table. But when I’m on the bike she knows I won’t get off to move her so she tried and figured it out. And then climbed up and down three more times because she was proud.

Of course, by the next day, she completely forgot how to do it and hasn’t done it again since,  no matter how strict I am with not putting her down, and how many times we try training tricks. Nothing has worked.

Three weeks ago, I had surgery so I was at home recovering for two weeks, and we had all-day training time. Nope. She wasn’t having any. She wanted to be held and petted all day, and that was pretty much it. She’s really snuggly and sweet when she isn’t angry and trying to rip off your face.

Then I went back to work a week ago, and the kid was mad. So, so mad. Wouldn’t let me hold her. Screamed at me whenever she was out. Basically just acted like a jerk for three or four days.

And then we got her some new toys and that helped put us back to normal.

So, last night we finally got some dinner and were watching TV, and the baby was up on the top bar of her gym, as normal, grooming her favorite toy and chattering to her bell. And then, all of a sudden, with no warning, she tilted her head funny and looked at the ladder. She got all quiet so I was looking over to see what she was doing. And then I nudged my husband and he looked over. And then.....believe me, it was as majestic as it sounds.....she grabbed the top rung of the ladder and headed down and started eating out of her dish. Like it was no big deal.

And we were clapping and saying “Yay! Big girl!” for ages.

And I knew we had stepped into a weird area.

So now I feel like I need to start wearing Mom jeans and carrying around fruit leather and baby wipes in my purse. Which needs to be larger and more sensible. And my husband needs to start saying, “Hot enough for ya?” to complete strangers.

New territory. Kind of creepy.

Another month. Wow, I’m good at this, right? Maybe less good, but it’s still crazy, so that’s okay. I give myself permission to slowly and completely lose my mind.

I might as well. It’s going to go any minute now.

So we’re getting ready to completely gut and remodel the kitchen. It’s time. The cabinet doors are barely hanging on, half of the storage is unusable, and there’s no way two people can cook in there together, which is how we roll. Whoever built this house decided to use the cheapest possible cabinet bases, and a really good quality door. Who does that? The insides are falling apart and can’t support the big heavy oak doors. Also, the particleboard inside is all warpy and weird, and it’s stained and gross-looking from years of renters who were obviously just really really icky. They’re clean now, though, because I own bleach.

We packed everything up and moved it into the former TV room, which is now the dining room, because the former dining room will be part of the kitchen when we’re done. It’s like musical chairs,  but with much more rooms and much less fun. It’ll be nice, though. The cupboards will be torn out this weekend, and the cabinet builder comes the weekend after that to do the final measurements.

Oh, and I’m having surgery on Wednesday.

Good call, right? I just felt like if I was going to feel like poop anyway, I might as well have a nice kitchen to look forward to. Not like I’ll be doing any cooking for a bit, at any rate. And the surgery was supposed to be two weeks ago, but I got bumped because they forgot that the facility would be closed during the week of July 4th, so everybody got pushed out. Lame.

So, wish us luck, and feel free to come bust out a cabinet or two if you’re in the neighborhood, ha ha. Just kidding. I think my husband deserves to take a sledgehammer to those things. I would love to, but I will have to let him have all of the fun. They really are the worst cabinets in the world.

Okay, I know. It’s been a month. In my defense, it’s been super crazy.

Here we go, though. I have something to say, and I’m not afraid to say it. On my blog. Which is read by like three people.

What is up with the targeted advertising? Mine must be broken, because I swear they think I’m an older single man with no friends and a deep love of violent video games and trash TV.

This morning, I got ads for about ten TV shows (the only show I watch that’s actually on right now is Jeopardy!) that are mostly about women wrestling with each other, except for the few that were about
cooking for one. I got an ad for a microwave egg cooker for one, a meal service for single people and a video game that had many, many boobies in it.

Wow. So many misses.

Advertisers: Show me some bird food and/or toys, weird gadgets for baking and canning, curly hair products that will make my hair look more like a model’s hair and less like the wig they used in several local productions of Annie. Oh, and more cheese ads, please. I do love me some cheese.

Should I have to tell them? Aren’t the computers just supposed to figure that stuff out now, since we’re being overtaken by robots? Geez.

Yep. You waited a month for this.

So it’s May, right? May. Middle of spring, supposed to be all nice, and what do we wake up to this morning?

Snow.

Not sticking, just turned into freezing rain, but still....snow? 

Yep. Springtime in New Mexico. Didn’t think we were like that here, right? Thought it was all like a western. With John Waynes and Clint Eastwoods aplenty, and cacti as far as the eye could see. Right?

Oh, and dirt. Lots of dirt.

Well, that’s like half right. The other half is a juniper season that won’t quit and miles and miles of retirees from Texas and Arizona who drive in (slowly) to point at the bushes and drive off the road and/or slam on their brakes while regarding the many, many mountains that we have going on here in Santa Fe. Oh, and pointing at the mountains. You have to point. Also, make sure to ask everyone if they speak English, because obviously we are all Spanish speakers, what with the New Mexican food everywhere and my pale Irish/German pastiness.

I know, I know. NM has its share of weird things to contribute, but for me, Spring is all about forgetting to bring a jacket when it’s 70 in the morning and then abruptly drops 30 degrees so I freeze the rest of the day, along with a perpetual sinus headache and then having to say, “Yep, I speak English” to anyone ever while trying not to giggle because I am, after all, quite seriously, the least Hispanic looking person on the planet.

Can we be done with this? Spring, you are officially the worst. And now I have to go drive in the mess. Barf.

Alright. This is the last day.

The last day that I can say, "A year ago, I had a Mom."

The last day that I can remember that last year at this time, I was trying to help my Mom die.

The last day.

Kind of ironic that it's on Good Friday...this Good Friday is definitely feeling somber in my neck of the woods. But I guess it's also a pretty potent reminder to have hope that I'll get to be with my Mom again, even if it's different, and even if it's not the way I want it to be.

This has definitely been the least sweet, the least gentle, the least kind year of my life.

Slowly climbing out may be the worst part.

EW.

This always makes me think of her, though, and it's very beautiful. Just because things make you ugly cry and get boogers all over your face and just because sometimes you hear snippets of the beautiful things without any warning while you're at work so all of that happens in front of others and you have to pretend to have a coughing fit and then run to the bathroom to be presentable and also avoid getting drippy goodness all over your paperwork....just because of all of that, it doesn't mean you shouldn't put the beautiful things on your blog so you can listen to it anytime you feel like repeating said performance, no matter where you might be.

Ugh. Purcell, you're killing me.

So I officially work with all skinny people, and it has made me realize that I’m not normal.

I’ve almost always had another chubby person in any office situation, but this time I’m on my own, and I just realized yesterday that none of them, nay, not a one, is on a diet. Nope.

And they all eat like crap. Well, mostly.

Even the healthy ones eat like crap. So what I want to know is, why do they get to eat like crap and be skinny, whilst I’m over there with my cucumbers and Greek yogurt, being all chunky and whatnot?

Best argument for diets being ridiculous EVER.

Also, I’ve been concentrating on my health and exercising a normal, non-psycho amount along with eating tons of vegetables and stuff but not counting calories or trying to lose weight. Just aiming for health. And I check the scale periodically because I can’t always help it. And it’s going down. Still. After not dieting for like 6 months or something.

Not dieting is actually working better than dieting. But I still have to eat healthy if I don’t want to have to buy new pants.

What?

I still don’t drink sodas and I don’t eat sugar except on very rare celebratory occasions when I’m forced to because, come on, it’s a birthday. Or a holiday. Or I had a rough week.

Okay, maybe I’m still working on that whole “Food is a Reward” thing. No one’s perfect.

At any rate, this ‘no one dieting’ situation is very interesting. I’ll keep you posted.

What pearls of wisdom am I gong to share with you all today? Well, I’ll tell you. I’m going to go on endlessly about the vilest, most heinous act a co-worker can commit at work, and their fellow co-workers can’t say a damn thing about it.

Microwaving fish.

Guys. Don’t do it. It doesn’t smell nice. It smells like, well, we all know what it smells like, and let me just tell you, everyone hates you when you do it. Everyone. Even the old guy in the back office who is like eight hundred years old and hasn’t smelled a smell in at least a good decade. He’s picking up on what you did and making a face.

He hates you. We ALL hate you.

Plus, the microwave retains the fishy smell for WEEKS. I’m not kidding. And then when anyone else uses it, their plastic wear soaks up a little of the fishiness and then it’s ruined.

Am I exaggerating? I don’t think so.

In all seriousness, I would rather you take a ginormous poo and leave the bathroom door open without using a fan than for you to microwave your fish. That would just call for area avoidance and unpleasantness that lasts a half hour or so. The fish incident happened last Monday, and I can still smell the lingering aroma of hot salmon every time I go into the room where we keep the microwave.

Hot salmon is not a nice thing to smell.

Also, I can’t use the microwave anymore because it ruined one of my plastic lids and I can’t get the smell out.

So, for the sake of workplace happiness and co-workers getting along with one another, please, please, please leave the fish at home.

Please.

Tomorrow will be the start of my first Lent without my Mom.

Yep, story of my year. First so-and-so without Mom. I know, I know, everyone’s sick of hearing it. I’m sick of thinking it, but there it is. Every day. Only one more month or so and I won’t be able to say that anymore, and then we’ll all move on. I think.

At any rate, I’m not sure what I want to do this year. I don’t believe that me giving up something is going to do God any favors, but I do think it’s a good time for me to grow as a human. So I’m going to figure something out.

Or maybe I’ll just give up wearing a bra for Lent. Yeah. I’m pretty sure that would make me a better person.

It would make me a more comfortable person, that’s for sure.

I know, I know, that kind of stuff doesn’t count. I’ll keep thinking. I have a full day ahead to decide. Plus, pancakes for dinner maybe. Protein pancakes, but still. Pancakes. Because Madrid Gras.

Don’t judge. I’ve lost my mind.

I realize I’m being a wee bit repetitive, but here’s the thing, guys: READ.

We went to Whole Foods on Saturday, because I apparently get amnesia whenever we run out of bell peppers, and I forget the hellish, swarming pit of angry humans that Whole Foods becomes on weekends. Or, really, always.

At any rate, we were just getting a few things, so I was lulled into a false sense of okayness.

We parked, which is an adventure in itself, because, I guess, if you’re fancy enough to stop at Whole Foods, you’re too damn fancy to corral your grocery cart. Yeah. That’s a whole post in itself.

We made it into the store. That’s also an adventure, because all of the drivers in the parking lot are blind and ninety-three, so their reflexes are kaput. Brakes? Naw. The pedestrians are way faster than the cars. Or, maybe not. Oops.

So we walk in, and right at the entrance, there’s a humongous, beautiful display of oranges. Those pretty ones with the pinkish insides. And many ginormous signs are posted. They all indicate that these lovely piles of citrus fruit are ORANGES. Seriously, there were fifteen signs.

In front of one of these massive signs was a tray of cut-up ORANGES. With yet another sign on display. Guess what was on the sign...go ahead...I’ll wait...

...yep. ORANGES - Free Samples.

That was the sign. Verbatim. Right by the damn tongs.

And, I kid you not, I was right behind a lady (waiting to buy some oranges, not to take a sample, because there was no way I was touching those disease-ridden tongs), when I heard her utter what I now feel may be the stupidest sentence ever uttered by a human being:

(And I have said some pretty stupid things myself, so you know it had to be pretty bad.)

“Baby, want some grapefruit?”

Yeah.

Then, again, “Look, baby! Look at the grapefruitses (that happened)! Mmmmmmmmm!”

Baby never did eat the grapefruitses.

And I died a little bit.

On the upside, nothing that happened after that even registered, so I must’ve been in shock.

Yeah.

Oh, happy Monday, by the way.

It’s Valentine’s Day. I like it, but I feel like a ton of people feel the same way about Valentine’s Day as I do about Mother’s Day. So I try to keep it low key. Also, this is our first one without my Mom, and she kind of always made a big deal about it, and I hate that she’s not here anymore.

There, got that out. I’m good now.

Anyway, I had an interesting happening yesterday. I’ve been working with a temporary student, just taking lessons to prepare for a concert, and yesterday was her last lesson. On her way out, she told me I was very encouraging, which surprised her, because when she first saw me she thought I looked scary.

Me. Scary.

At any rate, I didn’t laugh at her, but the next student in line was standing there, and then the lady says to her, “Don’t you think she looks scary?”

My student also didn’t laugh at her. I was so proud.

Then, that lady left and my student and I went in and started her lesson, but we had to take a break because we were both giggling because, yeah, me. Scary.

Still making me giggle a little.

Apparently I look like a legit teacher who’s going to yell and smack knuckles with a ruler. For some reason, that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside because, really, I am the least scary person on the planet. I rarely get angry, and when I do, all that happens is that I use the f-word a lot, and then usually start crying.

But, hey, I look scary to one person. It’s a start. Someday, I will look scary to everyone and then no one will mess with me, and maybe I will be the Jessica Fletcher/Dorothy Zbornak combo that I’ve always dreamed of being. That is my life goal, after all.

I realize that this post is a little random, but it’s early and it was making me giggle again so I thought I should share.

Also, Happy Valentine’s Day. In case you’re feeling unloved today, I love you. I really do. Now bring me cake.

Okay, got my tooth pulled a couple of days ago, and so far it hasn’t been nearly as painful as I thought it would be. Actually, the pain from the cracked root and infection were worse. So, all in all, expensive and gross, but pain only like a level three out of ten. Not horrible.

Bonus? Oh, yeah, I now have A TOOTH IN A JAR.

Yep, I asked if I could keep my tooth because I wanted to check it out. It’s AMAZING. So cool. I can’t believe how fancy our insides are. It just blows my mind. The roots are as big as the tooth, if not bigger, and all of that fits neatly inside of a jaw bone. Incredible.

Not enough adjectives in the world.

So, I’m supposed to rest, but that’s difficult for me to do, so we went to Costco yesterday and today I teach and I made some homemade lotion/cream stuff out of coconut oil, vitamin e, lavender and tea tree oil. And I’m going to finish my husband’s Christmas scarf today and then continue work on another project that I’d started for Christmas but couldn’t finish due to lack of acceptable yarn. I kind of failed this year at getting Christmas stuff done on time.

Oh, well. It’s still cold so he’ll get use out of it.

And that’s life in my neck of the woods. Nothing hilarious has happened in ages, but I’m working on it. Plus, the tooth in a jar makes me happy, so that’s good.

I may have issues.

Nothing very interesting has happened lately. Oh, except the fact that I’m LOSING A TOOTH.

I’m serious. They’re pulling it on Friday. 

I guess the root is cracked, or, at least, that’s the suspicion, and now my body has decided to not let it be in my mouth anymore. So I get to start the long, bloody, gross, expensive path of getting an implant.

Yuck.

The idea of having an implant grosses me out. Mostly because of the cadaver bone they use for the graft. What if I can taste it? That would be nasty. What if it’s haunted? Will I get ghosts in my mouth? What if they used a bone from somebody who disturbed an ancient Mayan burial ground and then all of a sudden I get weird noises coming from where the tooth was?

Seriously, though. Ew.

Also, I paid a buttload of money in 2016 to have surgery to save the tooth, which obviously didn’t work. So now I get to pay even more to get the tooth pulled and then get ground-up dead guy bones in my jaw, then get a tiny piece of titanium (which was obviously milled from diamonds, stardust, and angel tears) implanted into said dead guy bones, and then wait some more and then get a shiny fake tooth on top. Which is probably made from unicorn horns. Because, seriously, it costs as much as a unicorn would cost. Maybe even more.

And the unicorn would be more magical. This is just going to chew stuff and keep me from looking like a hobo.

So. That’s been my week. Yep.

It is cold enough that I have started wearing a blanket around my shoulders, poncho-style, every morning while I eat my cereal and drink my coffee. I just realized that if I threw on a cowboy hat and sat in front of a campfire, I could be a legit cowboy. Then I could say “Howdy, Ma’am” and also maybe own a horse.

I think I just found my ticket to horse ownership. Oh my goodness.

I sure hope my husband reads this, because I don’t know if I’ll ever be this brilliant again. Glad I got it down in writing.

November 27, 2018. That’s the last time I weighed myself. Since then, I’ve started working way more hours, dealt with a (now gone) nasty coworker, had Christmas, my Dad’s birthday, and a new year, all without my Mom, and several other delightful fun good times.

All without counting calories.

I was going to weigh on New Year’s Day, but I figured I should wait until a few more days had passed. You know, cut myself some slack. So, two weeks have passed, and this morning, I went for it.  Didn’t prepare myself, just made the call as I was walking past the closet where the scale lives.

And guess what? I didn’t gain any weight. None.

Didn’t lose any, either, but still. To not gain over the holidays while not counting calories is a tiny miracle. For serious.

So that’s my day. Score one for being healthy instead of trying to be thinner. Yeeeaaaaahhhh.

I got brave yesterday. Me. Brave. I know, I know, it’s shocking. True, though.

I was at my dad’s house, lulled into a false sense of security by The Napping Couch (for reals, that thing just makes you feel so nice and cozy and sleepy...it’s almost impossible to stay awake while sitting on it), when I had a brilliant thought. I thought, “Hey! I need to ask for a raise!” You know, since I’ve taken on a whole other person’s work and trained a new person and all.

And the couch whispered, “Do it. Email your boss right now.”

Okay, that part didn’t really happen, but I kind of feel like my sleepiness must’ve had something to do with it, because I’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask for like two weeks but failing miserably and feeling like it just wouldn’t be worth it. So I wrote an email, saying what I wanted and why and then, before I knew what the hell had gotten into me (because, seriously, I never do stuff like that), I sent it.

Not five minutes later, I got the reply I was dreading. “Come see me in my office tomorrow when you come in.”

Ugh. So I had to freak out about it all day and night and THEN he was on the phone all morning and didn’t say anything about it so I thought maybe I’d have to get brave again and, well, that just wasn’t going to happen. And then they all went to lunch.

And then, shortly after lunch, I was in my boss’ office getting some checks signed, and he said, “Oh, and we’ll raise your pay to what you asked for on the first, if that’s okay.” All nonchalant and whatnot. So I said, “Sure,” walked out, and tried not to smile too much. And hoped no one else would notice the fact that my entire head and neck were bright red because I am definitely a blusher.

See? It worked out! And I was brave! Yay!

That’s all. Go me, though!